


To Ease One's Suffering

by SketchLockwood



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:51:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SketchLockwood/pseuds/SketchLockwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr William Hobbes was a favoured, and almost principle, physician to Edward IV. This is a story in his perspective, around the events of 1483</p><p>I apologise in advance, this is depressing as hell. Yet it's therapy and is helping me to over come some issues which are going on in my personal life. </p><p>Feedback is welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Ease One's Suffering

**March 1483**

I had travelled across London in the darkness of midnight. Accompanied by my apprentice, and a handful of the King’s guards. When the pounding had come on the door of my private townhouse, I had already been awake, unable to sleep for my own worries, his grace had for months been deteriorating in his health. I had known him since his boyhood, had watched him grow from a sickly child into a strapping man. A man like no other, with a height and build unrivalled, with muscles as big as some men’s heads and the strength more befitting of a bear than a man; nothing had he loved more than his physical health, his hunting, his pursuits of physical exercise.   
  
In the last years however, that had been snatched away from him. He would not have men know it, no person save Lord Hastings and I were aware of his fall soon after he returned from Tewkesbury. He had claimed it was exhaustion, and mayhap I would have believed him had his condition not worsened. So to the court, their King had let laziness take hold. He had become idle, and fat. Rumours began to spread not just through the court but through London, that Edward had become the image of gluttony, that he dined too merrily and drank too heartily, but the people did not understand. It so oft has caused me exacerbation, for our King eats no more than he ever has and drinks more only for the pain he suffers. The agony he does not speak of, but is written on once handsome features. His gain in body mass, that is for his lack of exercise – exercise he does try to take his part in, but which I have had cause to forbid him from. Each time the king does attend a hunt, he returns to his bed with fits that night, fits and agony and weakness I cannot explain.

That was why my sleep was little, and in recent months disturbed. His condition had worsened, and from weakness in exercise, these last months had seen him ruined. His muscles in constant spasms, hindering his walking, his speech slow, his vision all but gone, his pain causing him to cry out on a night and even Hastings did not know that Jane, Edward’s favoured Jane had told me of his lack of interest in his sexual appetite. Yet despite my reluctance, his grace had dismissed me from his court, declaring that it was I, me, who needed rest and was not fit to care for the royal body until I had slept.

Silently, and mortified, I had obeyed, returning home three days past. When the summons had come from Lord Hastings, I had not been surprised, though my heart had stopped within my chest. It did not return it’s normal beat until I walked through the doors to the kings bedchamber where Lord Hastings greeted me. My eyes searched the room, surprised at the absence of our King. “God’s bones Hobbes, I could strangle him.” Hastings muttered his oaths, oaths he knew treasonous, oaths he knew I would not repeat. “For it took me much time to get him to his bed! Now he will not stay in it.” Sir William threw the goblet which had been sat fruitlessly in his hand. “He sits before the fire in there.” He nodded to the next room, perhaps the only room I had not entered.   
  
I put my bag on the King’s bed, opening it. “Did you send for yourself Sir?” I whispered. “A sleeping draught or-“  
  
“I sent for Ned.” His voice was choked, for several minutes I waited, averting my gaze to allow the Lord Chamberlain his dignity as he fought to control his emotions, fought to stop the wobbling of his lip, biting hard enough that blood ran down his chin. “He has worsened Hobbes. When he took fancy to his chair, not his bed, he ordered it be so but his servants had to carry him.” His voice trailed off to a whisper. “They had to carry him. The King of England, being carried like he is an infant.” He saw my alarm, put a hand on my arm as I pulled away, about to turn to the door. “Worse, I have heard he does not take to Jane’s bed, nor the Queen’s. He sees them for their company. _Their company._ As though that is all he has ever done.” He shook his head, this time unable to stop me as I picked up my bags, running toward the antechamber in which I found his grace, sat in silence before the fire. Dressed only in his nightgown, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his feet propped upon a stool.

“Hobbes.” When he muttered, his voice was that I heard of an old man. He had not needed to look at me to know, I had seen in the months past that looking helped him little. He had learnt a man from his walk. “Will has sent for you I do take it?” He coughed, a raspy sound that seemed to shake his whole body. Only then did I notice that his great weight was less, his build more slender. “He did not have cause.”  
  
“If I might be the one to talk your grace?” He shrugged as though he did not matter, when in truth I thought he did not care. “He did have every cause, for you are most unwell.” He grinned as he looked in my direction, I did not know how I should react. Scold him for his nonchalance? Or laugh at his wicked humour. Instead I said nothing.   
  
“Hobbes.” He sounded disappointed. “You medical men ever were too serious. Fetch me wine.” He muttered in the direction of the servant I had not seen to be there. The boys movement caused me to raise a hand. It was I who obeyed the order, having wine brought from the kitchens to him, handing him the poured cup as a test of his abilities. His hands shook as he rose the cup to his lips, spilling much down his front before small drops reached his mouth.

***

  
**April 9 th 1483**

Whatever my medical opinion, my words had been invalid to him. He had still gone on his trip, with Hastings at his side. Course, the Lord Chamberlain had not refused his master his request, though I had seen the stricken look on Sir William’s face as Edward had demanded they fish on the Thames. A demand which had seen him worsen. The cold had brought on more fits, and when in the days that followed his muscles weakened more, he had found himself unable to walk. That was when the tension had set in, that was when I had been forced to section him to his bed. With all the cursing and threats Edward could make to accompany that. He had indeed registered his displeasure. Now he lay, motionless.

My observations had brought me to curiosity, for this was an illness unlike no other I had seen before. His memory was lapse for the first time in his life, his muscles rigid as though they were bones, pain in each joint, his voice was weak, his bodily functions almost uncontrolled. Now he complained of numbness and fatigue, though all he does is sleep. I pushed Master Hemmingway aside as he made efforts to observe the king’s state.   
  
Edward did not much care, his permission had been gained that my apprentice should help. That was when my confirmation that our king had lost hope had come. For I had not known him to so readily accept an inexperienced hand upon him. Yet Hemmingway had let his blood without the King’s complaints, and now, now we did not so much as flick his skin with a knife. For no matter what science would dictate, it did not help. “Pour some wine Master Hemmingway.”   
  
“It is thirsty work Hobbes?” Edward whispered, so low I almost did not hear him. I pretended I had not, ignoring his objections as I lifted him, propping pillows behind him with Lord Hastings help.   
  
I nodded to Sir William, instructing him to take Edward’s hand in his own as I took the cup from Hemmingway. “Your Grace must drink this.” I pushed the cup to his lips, watching in despair as his attempts to gulp failed, and liquid flowed from his mouth as fast as it was poured in. I handed the cup back, showing nothing on my face, though as I turned away, I crossed myself. Muttering a silent prayer that this should not be it, that this was nothing more than a dream which would soon end. I heard Lord Hastings sob, heard Edward’s hushed comfort.   
  
“I am ready Hobbes.” He muttered, when I turned his hand was blindly stroking Lord Hastings arm. “I have told them all what it is I want, and my will has been changed. I am not a fool and have known as long as you, and I am ready to go with God.”  
  
“Your Grace, I cannot control your death, I cannot say how long you have-“  
  
“God man.” He coughed. “You have your ways.”   
  
“No, Ned no-“ Lord Hastings was interrupted.   
  
“Grind fox glove into one of your droughts. Do anything.”   
  
Sir William looked at me in wide eyes apprehension, though whatever he expected I did nothing. I said nothing as I left the room.

***  


That night I was summoned with haste to Edward’s chambers, viewing his fit and apparent apoplexy, his colour skin, hearing his writhing in agony, I had no choice. Sir William was stricken, grey in face as he struggled to hold his master to the bed. Our sovereign said nothing, though his eyes pleaded as they fixed on me. That was when I had decided to act, taking wine and into it I mixed the poisons which would cease his pain, and with it his heart. Lord Hastings had seen, though tears left his eyes, he did nothing to reproach me. Indeed, he held King Edward tight as my hand forced his throat open before the liquid slipped down it and into his stomach.

Edward was not alone as within the hour his breaths grew slower, and within two they had stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note this is a completely fictitious piece of work. Whilst some of the symptoms here most likely overlapped with Edward's own condition at the time of his death (Though there is no conclusive evidence on exactly what killed him, and people suggest anything from pneumonia to a burst appendix), these are symptoms of Multiple Sclerosis. A none fatal brain disorder. 
> 
> Though if someone had such symptoms in the 15th century, they would likely have been misread as another more fatal condition, in which for a king, a doctor would have considered ending their patients life to spare them dignity and certain agony. So, I am playing on this.


End file.
